The City and the World and Other Stories eBook

Now, O God! there were the red men, the brown men,
the yellow men and the black men; not to speak of
these white men whose faces were so strange; and they
were going to say something—­something against
him. He could guess—­could well guess
what it was they would say. The Vicar-General
knew that he had been wrong, and that his wrong had
come into Eternity. He doubted if it ever could
be made right, for he knew now the value of a soul
even in a black body. He knew it, but was it
too late? His vestments were as heavy as lead.

Trembling in every limb, the Vicar-General looked
for his Judge; but he could not see Him. He only
felt His Presence. The Silent Angel had a book
in his hand. The Vicar-General could read its
title. There was a chalice on the cover, as if
it spoke of priests, and under it he read:

Thelawbywhichtheyshallbejudged.

The Silent Angel opened the book and the Vicar-General
saw that it had but one page. Shining out from
the page he read:

“Thouart A priestforever.”

And under it:

“Goye, therefore, andteachallNations.”

Sorrow was over the soul of the priest. Only
the hope in the eyes of the Silent Angel gave him
hope, as he bowed his head before the judgment.

THE RESURRECTION OF ALTA

Father Broidy rushed down the stone steps and ran
toward the Bishop’s carriage which had just
stopped at the curb. He flung open the door before
the driver could alight, kissed the ring on the hand
extended him, helped its owner out and with a beaming
face led the Bishop to the pretty and comfortable
rectory.

“Welcome! welcome to Alta, Bishop,” he
said as they entered the house, “and sure the
whole Deanery is here to back it up.”

The Bishop smiled as the clergy trooped down the stairs
echoing the greeting. The Bishop knew them all,
and he was happy, for well was he aware that every
man meant what he said. No one really ever admired
the Bishop, but all loved him, and each had a private
reason of his own for it that he never confided to
anyone save his nearest crony. They were all
here now to witness the resurrection of Alta—­the
poorest parish in a not too rich Diocese, hopeless
three years ago, but now—­well, there it
is across the lot, that symphony in stone, every line
of its chaste gothic a “Te Deum” that even
an agnostic could understand and appreciate; every
bit of carving the paragraph of a sermon that passers-by,
perforce, must hear. To-day it is to be consecrated,
the cap-stone is to be set on Father Broidy’s
Arch of Triumph and the real life of Alta parish to
begin.

“I thought you had but sixteen families here,”
said the Bishop as he watched the crowd stream into
the church.

“There were but eighteen, Bishop,” the
young priest answered, with a happy smile that had
considerable self-satisfaction in it. “There
are seventy-five now.”